


Last Night, I Fell Apart

by pdoesart (elphie_jolras)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Ana loves her boi, Canon Divergent Mahariel, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Nightmares, Zevran is a Good Pure Soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6793078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphie_jolras/pseuds/pdoesart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smells of lightning, his Warden.  </p>
<p>--</p>
<p>Or, five times Zevran comforts Mahariel following a nightmare, and one time she comforts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Night, I Fell Apart

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for any screw-ups with the Spanish Zev uses. This idea came to me last week and would NOT leave me alone until I wrote it, so here we are!

The first time, Zevran has no warning; one moment, his Warden is sleeping peacefully and the next, she is sitting upright with a soft cry.  Her chest is heaving, and as much as he enjoys her bosom, this is not a _good_ reason that her breaths are coming so quickly.  So he reaches for her, grips her wrist just tight enough to remind her where she is, and he waits.  He’s had nightmares before; he knows how to break free of them.

It takes a minute or so, but her breathing slows and she no longer looks _quite_ so panicked; she is enough of herself once more to assume that she need apologize for an imagined slight.

“I’m sorry,” she says, reaching for his other hand, “For waking you, I mean.”

Zevran shakes his head.  “No need, _querida_.  I was not asleep.”

He’d been woken by a nightmare of his own, but the soft pressure and heat of Mahariel’s body against his own had been enough to calm him — worrying as that is.  Still, he’ll have time to think about what she means to him later; right now, she needs him and _that_ is more important.

That is worrying as well.

“Hm.  Waiting for a moment to stab me in the back, were you?”

He laughs, because she means it in jest — that much is clear from the brightness in her gray eyes — and replies, “And lose such a lover as you?  _Never_ , _querida_.”

She lays back down, pulling him down as well, and smiles her gentle smile at him.  It is the smile of a carefree woman, a bright thing that he never expected to find in the midst of a Blight, nor on the face of a Grey Warden.  But, then again, his Warden is everything _but_ the expected, and her smile is as bright as any fire she can conjure from her hands.

“Was your nightmare of the archdemon?”  He had overheard her and Alistair talking about it, one night; he knows that it is a side effect of being a Warden.  She nods mutely in response, smile gone from her full lips.  Zevran frowns.

“Shall I fetch Alistair?”

At that, Adriana shakes her head and curls up against him, rather like a cat.  “You’re enough,” she whispers tenderly, and then: “Also, you’re still naked.”

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She does not sleep in his tent every night, at least not on the surface.  However, since coming to the Deep Roads, many more nights have been spent with her by his side.  He thinks it is the idea that they are underground, so far from the forests and the surface; elves were not made to live without the sun.

(Later, long after they leave Orzammar, she tells him that the stone reminded her of the Circle tower.  He kisses her until she remembers that the tower has no hold over her.  He kisses her until she remembers that she is free.)

This time, he sees the nightmare before she wakes — her brow creases, her mouth frowns, and she begins to thrash about beside him.

“Ana!” He’s never called her that before.  It’s always been _Warden_ or _Mahariel_ or, rarely, _Adriana_.  But he doesn’t know how else to wake her, how else to pierce the fog of sleep which surrounds her.  He takes her in his arms and calls her name again, more insistent.  “ _Ana_!”

She tears herself from his arms as she wakes in her blind terror, and though he knows she didn’t recognize who was holding her the action still stings his heart.  Stupid, soft thing, he thinks, _feeling_ for this woman.  Nothing he cares for (he will not say _loves_ ) stays; it is always taken from him.  His heart should know better.  Apparently it does not.

It takes her longer to break the grip of terror this time, but the second she recognizes where she is, _who_ she is with, she throws herself at him and cries.  That is how he knows the nightmare was horrifying; he has never seen her _sob_ like this before.  He has hardly seen her _cry_.

She buries her face into his bare chest, and some instinct within him tells him to stroke her hair.  As he does, her sobs slowly fade until she disentangles herself from his arms, wiping away the tears which cling to her cheeks.  “Sorry.  It was just… the broodmother… I’m afraid _I’ll_ end up like that.”

“You needn’t apologize for nightmares,” he reminds her, “Such things are beyond your control.”  Then, in response to her explanation, he adds, “I would not let such a monstrous thing happen to you.”

Perhaps it is foolish, to make promises to this woman.  Perhaps he is a fool to promise such a thing to the elf with the stormy gray eyes, but he cannot find it in himself to care.

“Nor would I,” she says, and with such conviction that his swells to see it written on her face.  “I would die first.”

There is nothing to say to that; they lay back down, and Ana takes up her normal position — curled with her back pressed to his chest, a flower growing towards the sun — and they let sleep take them.

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Though he will never admit it out loud, he enjoys watching his Warden sleep.  When her dreams are peaceful ones, she curls in on herself, one leg tucked to her chest and the other often tangled up with his own.  He holds her close, throws his leg over hers and lays behind her — Zevran can’t quite see her face like this, but the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath his hand reassures him that she is at peace.

At least, she is until she stiffens, a small noise escaping her lips.  Zevran is awake at once, alert, always a light sleeper, and prepares himself to wake her if the nightmare gets any worse.  But she wakes herself this time, a gasp escaping her.  He sits up beside her.

“Warden?”

“I’m alright.”  Her voice is breathless, and though there are times when such breathlessness pleases him immensely, now is not one of those times.  He rubs her arm, hoping to comfort her.

“ _Mi amor,_ ” he murmurs, voice soft, “What can I do to help?”

She lets out a shaky breath and turns to face him, gray eyes wide and luminescent in the dark.  She looks at him with wonder, with gratefulness, and she’s beautiful with her curly hair the color of flame and the spindly lines of her jet black _vallaslin_.

“I won’t be able to fall back asleep,” she confesses, then, “Just hold me?”

So he does.

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It amazes him, the look in his Warden’s eyes when she casts her gaze upon him.  She has a marvelous capacity for trust and forgiveness, his Warden, as well as for love and compassion.  It was these traits, these marvelous aspects of this marvelous woman, which saved him.  Had the choice to spare his life or kill him been left to any other member of her party, Zevran has no doubt he would be dead.

Once, that _was_ his wish: death.

But his Warden is a curious creature, capable of great anger and blunt statements as well as soft words and heartfelt gestures.  The boots, the gloves — they speak of a kindness he has never known, and he wants to repay that kindness if only by keeping her safe, by waking her from her nightmares.  It is nothing more than that, really, just payment for her gifts.

He may not wish to die any longer, but he certainly does not _love_ her.

(When he says this to Wynne one morning, insistent, the mage gives him a knowing smile and Zevran his hit with the certainty that he is lost to this Dalish woman.)

Adriana’s nightmares are normally silent, with the occasionally whimper, and even that is rare (though still enough to rouse him from his own slumber).  But tonight words spill from her mouth, almost unintelligible but for the sound of his name and the soft cries of _“no!”_ which wake him easily from his shallow sleep.

“ _Mi amor_?”

No response.

“Ana?  _Ana!”_

He prods her gently and then she is awake, face pale with her terror, calling his name as she wakes.

_“Zevran_!”

It sounds like a plea, and his mind flashes back to Rinna and how she had begged for her life, how he had ignored her and laughed and spat on her corpse — it makes him feel sick.  He turns his thoughts back to _now_ , to Adriana.

“I am here,” he says, “I am right here.”

They sit together as silent tears stream down her face, and Zevran waits for her to calm herself long enough to speak.  Once the tears have slowed, his Warden takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls her hand free to wipe her eyes.  Then she returns to him, leaning in close until their lips are only a breath apart.

He kisses her as she wishes, soft and gentle, cupping her face in his hands.

She smells of lightning, his Warden.  It clings to her, as wild as her spirit.  She smells of lightning, of rain, of the earth; she tastes of magic.  He knows in that moment that he cannot give her up.  He does not know why, but he knows that he cannot leave her.

“I dreamed that I lost you,” she says finally, threading dark fingers through his blond hair.  Her voice is quiet, her words a secret for his ears alone.  “I dreamt that the darkspawn took you, that you died and all I could do was _watch_.”

Now she seems only angry, a fire in her gray eyes, and so he holds her tighter until she kisses him again.  This one burns with passion, with something which lies between them and remains unspoken.

“Tell me I won’t lose you,” she begs, as vulnerable as he has ever heard her, “Tell me you won’t leave me.”

“I will not,” he says, and is surprised to find that he means every word.

Another foolish promise.

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By the time his Warden wakes this time, he knows how to comfort her best.  He already has her in his arms, nose pressed into her red curls, and he is ready for her tears.

“ _Te amo_ ,” he whispers, “ _te amo…”_

She doesn’t speak Antivan; she has no idea what he’s saying.

“ _Te amo tan mucho_ ,” he breaths, though the thought of love is terrifying and he does not _want_ it.  He _does_ love her too much, by loving her at all.  What has love granted him?  A broken heart; a single lie and he had ripped precious life from his beloved Rinna.  He can forget most sorrows, most hardships, but the realization that Rinna had been innocent, the guilt of killing her, will stay with him for the rest of his life.

He is terrified that another lie will make him kill his Warden.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, apologetic as ever.  She never apologizes to anyone else; it would seem that only Zevran has that honor.  Ana is blunt in most interactions, unafraid of showing her anger or disgust, unapologetic in her loyalty to her friends.  But she apologizes to him for the smallest of things, including this, and so he replies as he always does.

“There is no need to apologize.  If I may ask — what was your dream of?”

“A memory,” she responds softly.  “A memory of Ostagar.”  She pulls away, just far enough to look him in the eye as she speaks.  “My sister died there — she became a Warden at the same time I did.  I didn’t witness her death, but it doesn’t matter.  That doesn’t stop me from seeing it in my dreams.”

“I… did not know,” he confesses, though how could he?  Why would she share such a story with him?  Despite how easily she seemed to have trusted him, how quickly she let him into her tent, it makes sense that she would not tell him everything.  Adriana laughs, a bitter noise that Zevran is surprised to hear come from his Warden — she has always been bright, light, a storm perhaps but _more_ nevertheless.  Genuine amusement bursts forth from her in bright laughter or muffled giggles, never a bitter sound such as this.  This is not her laugh like summer rain; this is the bitter cold of a Ferelden winter.

“I know you didn’t.  Nobody does, other than Alistair.  What would the point be?  Loghain’s treachery killed her; only his death will put her to rest and avenge her.”

Suddenly, he comprehends the rage on her face whenever they hear Loghain’s name, or see his men.  It is not for the loss of the Wardens that Adriana seeks revenge — it is for a far deeper hurt.  They have both lost much, their parents and the thing they loved most, but Zevran has no way to avenge Rinna.  Not like Ana can avenge her sister.

“I told her — Nadya — that I would keep her safe,” Ana confesses, tears in her eyes which had moments ago been full of anger.   “I _promised_ her, Zevran.  What good is my word if I could not keep the one promise which mattered most?”

He aches to tell her that her word is worth more than all of the precious metals in Orzammar, that one broken promise which was impossible to keep does not tarnish her, but he remains silent.  She does not his words, his reassurances.  She wants revenge for the sister she lost.

He would bring her the stars, the moon, Loghain’s head on a platter, but she wants none of it.  Well, excepting Loghain’s head, but that is hers to take.  He will not deny her revenge.

“ _Amor_ ,” he says quietly, “I do believe your sister would be proud to see where you stand today, and that she would love you regardless.”

“How can you say that?” she demands, “I betrayed her trust in me!  I…”

He silences her with a finger to her lips.  “I know,” he says, “Because it is _impossible_ for someone _not_ to love you.”

It’s the closest he’s come to a confession; he hopes she does not pry, does not search for more.  It isn’t that he doesn’t _want_ her to know, but that he is terrified of admitting it, terrified that he is not to her what she is to him.  After all, she is a hero, with the respect of nearly all who meet her.  He is a shadow, a rogue, an assassin who failed to kill his mark and then made the foolish mistake of _caring_ for her.

His words halt her own, make her pause and stare at him with those glorious gray eyes.

“I…” she begins, then halts once more.  “Thank you, Zev.”

She sounds genuinely touched.  He pulls her close, and they stay that way until dawn.

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She loves him more than she thought possible, more than she’s ever loved anyone except maybe Nadya.  He’s been by her side through the whole damn Blight and the months since, and she’s grateful for that.  She isn’t supposed to love him — she knows that, knows that loving an assassin is almost as dangerous as loving the Dread Wolf.  But she does anyway, because the heart wants what it wants, and her heart wants the crow with the caramel eyes and the wicked smile.

They don’t always agree — she remembers when he tried to give her his earring and she’d accepted, but confessed how strange it was to receive a gift that did not have a specific meaning behind it.  After all, the Dalish only gave practical gifts to people whom they cared deeply for, and always to serve a purpose.  A dagger, perhaps, or a pelt.  Never something like an _earring_.

“But you gave _me_ gifts,” he had said, sounding slightly annoyed.

“Yes,” she’d replied, “Because they had _meaning_.”

Unable to let him walk away, to leave the argument between them, she’d continued with: “But I suppose I’m not very much of a Dalish anymore, and I _do_ like it — will you pierce my ear so I can wear it?”

She hadn’t been able to say it in that moment, nor that night.  She’d been too afraid that he’d turn, run, that she would lose him.  Saying she loved him was too big of a step.  But she’d said it eventually, and she hasn’t stopped saying it since.  Every day.

Her nightmares are less frequent, now, though he still holds her after every single one.  Now she knows the signs of his nightmares as well as he knows hers, knows the first signs of discomfort as the appear on his face.

So she knows that he is suffering from a nightmare now.

“Zev,” she whispers — she’s always been quick to wake, so there is no trace of sleep in her voice now —  “wake up.”

He does, instantly, always a light sleeper (it’s saved their lives more than once), and reaches for his daggers before he realizes where he is.  Then he relaxes visibly, every line of his body going from rigid to fluid.

“Warden,” he says, face softening, “What is it?”

“You were having a nightmare,” she answers, reaching for him with mahogany arms, “I thought you might want some comfort.”

He gives her a roguish grin, though she has known him long enough that she sees the discomfort behind his smile.  “From you, _mi amor_?  Always.”

She wraps her arms around his neck and leans their heads together.  In the dim light, his caramel eyes glitter and glow — an elven trait.

“What was your dream about?”

It’s a quiet, intimate moment — forehead to forehead, gazing into each other’s eyes — until Zevran opens his mouth.

“Well,” he begins, “It was rather naughty at first.”

She laughs, light and joyful, and squeezes him tighter.  “Evidently it didn’t _remain_ that way.”

“No, alas.  It was one which reoccurs frequently — a memory of my Crow training.”

She makes an empathetic noise, bumping her nose against his and tracing a design on his bare back.  “What can I do?”

“Well, I can think of a _few_ things…” he jokes, kissing her.  She giggles against his lips, laughter bubbling in her chest.

“Smartass,” she mumbles, but the word is filled with affection and humor.  He chuckles, pulling away and bringing his fingers up to trace the lines of her _vallaslin_.

“Alas, you have discovered my secret,” he jokes, “Just having you in my arms is enough for me, _querida.”_

She snorts.  “You’re the one in _my_ arms, love.”

“Oh! So I am.  Not that I am complaining, mind.”

They laugh for another moment, gentle and quiet.

“Zev?

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

His smile in the dark is a gentle curve of his lips.  “I love you too.”

_Fin._

_ _

**Author's Note:**

> Art is from my blog here: http://pdoesart.tumblr.com/post/144074265489/ana-loves-zev-a-lot


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